


Kiss

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD - Freeform, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys Kissing, First Kiss, John feels guilty, Kissing, M/M, Victorian, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, argument, john is not a saint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 12:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4787978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Interesting,” he snarled, his voice deep with anger. “You say that you wish for it to stop, not because you want to, but because you must.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> This follows DISPATCH BOX: Next

As had happened between our first and second—encounter, for lack of a better word—I ended up feeling terribly uneasy about the whole thing. Despite my enthusiasm at the time, as I considered my behaviour in retrospect, I found myself growing more and more uncomfortable with it.  
  
True to my word, however, I did attend to him. He spent three days either in his bed or on the sofa. I occasionally allowed him to sit at the table for a meal, but at other times I brought a tray to him. I did not feed him again, as I had had to do that first night when he was so frighteningly weak and overcome, but I did watch him carefully to ensure that he was, indeed, taking in nourishment.  
  
He himself did not allude to either incident. I was not certain if it was because he, too, was feeling chagrin for our carnal weakness, or if he had simply categorised it and moved on.  
  
And then he was called out of town. I found myself rather angry at him for accepting a new case when he had been so recently invalided. And then I considered it. I had been feeling more and more unsettled by the situation between us. I needed time to myself, I realised, to consider exactly what was happening and what the implications and consequences were likely to be. So when he invited me to go along, as he always did, I declined, saying that I had business to attend to. He had looked at me keenly for a minute before shrugging his acquiescence and heading to his bedroom to pack.  
  
“Please take care of yourself,” I urged him as he departed. I meant it, quite sincerely. Despite our quandary I was still his doctor and his friend. “Please try to remember to eat at least once a day and perhaps sleep on occasion.”  
  
He frowned. “If you were going with me, you could ensure that,” he remarked a bit bitterly.  
  
“That was unnecessary,” I admonished him. “Will you please at least telegraph and let me know where you’re staying?”  
  
He sighed—it was so dramatic as to be a bit comical—and donned his traveling coat and hat. “Very well,” he agreed. And without another word, he caught up his bag and strode out of our rooms.  
  
I heard him shouting a farewell to Mrs Hudson, and then the sound of the street door slamming behind him.  
  
I suddenly felt terribly bereft.  
  
*  
  
He had been away for an entire week. During that time I had attempted to keep myself gainfully occupied, but I found my thoughts turning constantly back to him and our situation. It was not a very productive consideration of the circumstances, for instead of working out just exactly how to tell him that it should not and could not happen again, I found myself day dreaming about the way his hand had felt on me, and the way he had so eagerly sought to apply his new skills, and how very beautiful he was beneath me as we made each other feel, using his word, exquisite.  
  
He had, obediently (and to my great surprise) telegraphed me not only to let me know where he was staying, but also when he would return home. I did not know the exact train, but he had told me Friday, and the day was finally here.  
  
The weather had, unfortunately, taken a turn for the worse, and we had been experiencing freezing rain and high winds. It was dreadful and I admit freely that I had no inclination whatsoever to go out into it.  
  
I was more disappointed than I care to admit when the first possible time for his arrival passed, and then the second. There was only one more train that day that would bring him back to London, and I was beginning to have doubts that he would actually be on it. At least I had not gone to the station to meet him—that would have been—well—not exactly the message I wished to convey.  
  
For whilst he was gone, despite the hours I had spent recalling our moments of intimacy, I was steeling myself to insist that it not happen again. It was, after all, deviant. Illegal. Immoral. Unseemly. We absolutely could not let anyone know what we had done. Mrs Hudson would, at the very least, insist that we leave. Word would get back to my medical colleagues and Sherlock’s brother. We could actually be arrested.  
  
And obviously there would be no more cases for him and no more publishing our adventures for me.  
  
No, it had to end.  
  
But here it was, Friday, and after a week of musing on it, I still hadn’t the slightest idea of how to tell him.  
  
*  
  
It did not help sooth my mind one bit when, upon finally hearing the street door open, my heart leapt in my chest. That was not exactly the reaction one generally has when one’s mate returns after a trip. I had been worried about him—that was what it was, I reasoned to myself. I was eager to see if he was well.  
  
I stopped myself from rushing down the stairs to greet him and help him with his bag, instead sitting back in my chair in what I hoped was a casual fashion.  
  
I could not, for the life of me, prevent the smile on my lips.  
  
“Hello, John,” he greeted me. He returned my smile a bit tentatively, but sweetly.  
  
“You look half frozen,” I reprimanded as he doffed his outwear, a shower of ice particles sprinkling themselves in all directions.  
  
“Mmm,” was his response. I was not surprised to see that he did not look terribly well. He needed his doctor. I rose and approached him.  
  
“It was too much, wasn’t it?” I said quietly, my hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t have nearly enough time to recover from the past several months. You really shouldn’t have gone.”  
  
“I was all right until the weather turned,” he admitted. “Being cold and wet is one thing—this is England, after all. Being absolutely frigid, soaked to the bone, and with small icicles in one’s hair…” He shook his head, releasing a smaller shower of frozen water.  
  
I tutted quite professionally at him. “You’ll be ill all through Christmas at this rate,” I pointed out gruffly. My tone was, I hoped, disguising the depth of my concern. “But at least now you’re back. Go get into some dry clothing—something warm. Do you want to eat? I can ask Mrs Hudson to bring something up.”  
  
“Perhaps. Yes. Thank you,” he replied obediently.  
  
Whilst I was waiting for Mrs Hudson to bring some food up, I gathered all the loose cushions and pillows in the room and, as Sherlock often did for himself, built him a sort of nest in front of the fireplace. He would be warmer there.  
  
Mrs Hudson smiled when she brought the tray. “Someone’s having a picnic, I see,” she teased, handing the tray down to me. “Is that fire enough,” she fussed, “or does he need a blanket as well?” She took one from the sofa and handed it to me before stealing quietly out of the room.  
  
“All right. Come eat something now,” I called out to him.  
  
When he saw the arrangement of cushions in front of the fireplace and the covered tray and pot of hot tea on the hearth, he smiled affectionately—a smile that—if I am allowed a small conceit—was reserved for me alone. “Come sit down,” I invited him, patting the velvet pillows.  
  
“You spoil me,” he commented. He dropped down onto the cushions, seating himself so we were facing one another.  
  
“Other than the weather, did you have a productive trip?”  
  
“I’ve got so much to tell you,” he stated victoriously. “I really could have used your medical mind, though. I can’t imagine why I went without you.”  
  
I reflected on that for a bit before tentatively responding, rather quietly, “You did invite me. I declined the invitation. I felt that we needed a few days apart.”  
  
He frowned. “Why?” he demanded, like a petulant child.  
  
“Well, it’s just that we’ve been so busy…” I sounded idiotic to myself. My desire for having a few days apart had disappeared like a soap bubble. “I missed you,” I said instead.  
  
He lay back on the cushions with a thoughtful look on his face. I took a good look at him.  
  
“Your hands are shaking,” I pointed out gently.  
  
“Mmm,” he agreed dreamily.  
  
“Did you eat whilst you were away?” I saw no reason to obfuscate my concern.  
  
“Some,” he replied, a bit guiltily.  
  
I sighed. “I do wish you would take better care of yourself.”  
  
“Why should I? You do a much better job.” He smiled at me cheekily.  
  
“Yes, I do. Now, would you please eat something?”  
  
“What is there?” he asked, tipping his head to see.  
  
I uncovered the tray and unwrapped the cloth from around the small silver basket on it, revealing several scones. They had been split whilst hot and were dripping with lovely butter, and there were small pots of clotted cream and honey on the tray. Who was spoiling him? I drizzled some honey on one of the cakes, then topped it with the cream.  
  
“Open up,” I instructed, holding it to his mouth.  
  
He bit into it and smiled around the mouthful. “Escellent,” he mumbled.  
  
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I chided.  
  
“Yes, sir,” he replied cheekily. Despite his exhaustion, he really was in an excellent mood; almost boyish.  
  
I took a bite myself. Why should he be the only one to enjoy it? “It’s very sweet,” I commented. “A bit of lemon curd would be nice.”  
  
“I want more,” he demanded.  
  
I laughed. He was being a downright brat. “Here,” I said as I offered him another bite. He took it. My finger, holding the dripping treat, brushed his lip.  
  
I felt something like a shock run through my entire body. I looked intently at my companion, but he seemed more interested in chewing and licking the honey off his lips than…  
  
“More,” he requested, more politely this time.  
  
I obligingly held the last bite up to his lips. This time he raised one hand and, wrapping his fingers around my wrist, guided my hand into his mouth—all the way into his mouth.  
  
It was not accidental. I shuddered as his tongue wrapped teasingly around my digits, sticky and sweet with honey and cream. He released my hand and smiled wickedly. “That was very tasty indeed,” he murmured.  
  
I looked him straight in the eye, which, as he was recumbent, meant looking directly down at him. There was a glint in them that I had not seen before. They shimmered and sparkled in the dimming light of the evening; more silver than anything.  
  
The situation had to be addressed.  
  
“My friend,” I started, “I do think that we have to have a discussion about this.”  
  
“About what?” he responded carelessly.  
  
“You know what,” I snapped back at him. I took a deep breath, surprised at myself. This was straining me even more than I thought it would, although I will say in my defence that I wasn’t expecting to find my fingers in Sherlock’s mouth and him quite obviously enjoying them being there.  
  
No, that was not helping one bit.  
  
“You mean about what we did in bed together, don’t you?” I was somewhat horrified to see that his entire demeanour had changed. Instead of lively and teasing, his face was now pensive, and instead of looking directly at me with a decided sparkle in his eye, he was now staring disconsolately at the ceiling.  
  
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. You know that we have to discuss it.”  
  
“You’re going to say that we shouldn’t do it anymore.” He was definitely pouting.  
  
“Yes, I’m afraid so. This isn’t a surprise to you, is it?”  
  
He sighed, and my heart sank. “Not at all,” he admitted. “I am not surprised. I am, however… disappointed.”  
  
My chest grew heavy. This was not at all what I had expected. “I’m sorry,” I said, sincerely. “I thought that you would either agree with me that it was inappropriate and could never happen again, or you would simply—” I paused and chose my next words carefully—“ignore it and move on.”  
  
“What?” The word shot out of his mouth and he suddenly sat up, almost upending the tea pot. “How could you _possibly_ believe that I would… what? Forget about it? Pretend that it never happened?” He glared at me, but his ire was mixed with something else. I stared deeply into his beautiful face. Anger, yes. That was most apparent. His striking, dark eyebrows were drawn down and his mouth was tight. But there was something about his eyes. Was that—was that _sorrow_? I was instantly mortified at having gotten him so upset.  
  
“I’m sorry,” I apologised earnestly. I realised that I had made a terrible error—I had made an assumption, and one based on a somewhat cowardly hope that he would be completely fine with letting it all pass so I wouldn’t have to think about it anymore. “I perhaps did not think that that is how you _would_ react, but more the way that I had _hoped_ you would react.”  
  
“Because you want it to stop,” he stated flatly.  
  
“Because I know that it must stop,” I corrected.  
  
He raised an eyebrow at me. “Interesting,” he snarled, his voice deep with anger. “You say that you wish for it to stop, not because you _want_ to, but because you _must_.”  
  
“ _We_ must stop,” I amended, not the least bit intimidated by his fury—and of course deliberately ignoring the point that he was trying to make. “There are two people involved in this situation, Sherlock—”  
  
“Obviously,” he drawled sarcastically. “It clearly would not be an issue if it was just one of us, now, would it?”  
  
“Stop that,” I huffed. “You need to calm down.”  
  
“I’m perfectly calm, _Doctor_.”  
  
Oh. He knew that I absolutely despised it when he did that. His voice just dripped distain and disrespect. Well, two could play at that game. “You’re not,” I responded hotly. “You’re not even close to calm. In fact, you’re exhibiting several signs of anxiety and distress. Would you like me to tell you what I _observe_ about you?”  
  
He tried for a few more seconds, but then he gave up. He drew his legs up and, wrapping his arms around them, dropped his head to his knees, obscuring his face. “No,” he mumbled into the fabric of his dressing gown.  
  
I growled in frustration. This was most definitely not the reaction that I was anticipating from him—or from myself. For even though I knew—absolutely _knew_ —that we could never allow ourselves to get carried away (now _there_ was a euphemism) again, I found what I _knew_ to be at odds with what I was _feeling_.  
  
I was feeling confusion about his reaction. I was feeling shame for upsetting him so much. Worst, though, was the realisation that I was feeling—not elation or even relief for getting my point across. No. I was feeling—  
  
Dishonest.  
  
Yes. Dishonest. Because he was correct. I had said that I wanted it to stop because _it_ was illegal and immoral, not because _I_ felt wicked or damned or criminal. I didn’t feel any of those things. A bit guilty, perhaps—guilt because I had—truthfully, honestly—I had loved it.  
  
It enthralled me. I revelled in it. Every moment that I brought to mind, again and again, seemed like the most delicious and heavenly of dreams ever. I had held Sherlock Holmes’ most private parts in my own hand. He had held mine. We had stroked each other not just with lust (I’m not denying that there definitely was lust), but also with love and affection. I had brought him to his release two times, and both times it had felt nothing but wonderful and joyous. “All lovely,” as he put it.  
  
And now? My chin had sunk down to my chest as I ruminated on all of this. I raised my head to see what he was doing. He still sat before me on the cushions, his head on his knees, but now his arms were wrapped over his head. God, I was an awful, horrible person. Why had I hurt my love so? “Sherlock,” I murmured gently. “Please look at me.” He shook his head within its cage of arms ferociously. “Yes. Please. I want to see your eyes.”  
  
“Why?” he muttered.  
  
“Because I want to be looking into them when I tell you that I have made a horrible mistake. You were correct—as you usually are—and I was wrong.”  
  
Slowly, he lowered his arms and raised his head. His face was a perfect picture of misery—anguish and sorrow and perplexity marring his unworldly features. “What was I correct about?” he asked tentatively. This Sherlock was so different from my usual mad man that it made my throat ache and my eyes burn.  
  
“You were correct in saying that I wish for us to stop because I think that we _must_ stop, not because I _want_ to stop.”  
  
“Oh. Was I?” He sounded dazed and uncertain; not at all like himself.  
  
I watched his lips intently as he spoke. There was the tiniest bit of honey on the lower one and I am not ashamed about what I did next, for I feel that if I had not, the moment would have been lost and never presented again. I leant forward, and I captured that honey-drizzled lip with my own.  
  
*  
  
Reflecting on it, I will never regret my action, for as my lips touched his, the heavy feeling in my chest lifted and I felt suddenly that this was the correct thing to do; perhaps the only thing to do.  
  
Sherlock’s lips are full and soft. They are sweet even without honey. Despite his deplorable smoking habits (more than once I was convinced that using his shag tobacco as an extermination tool for infestations of rodents would solve many problems in the shabbier parts of the city), his breath never reeks of smoke. His tongue is nimble and gentle; never intrusive.  
  
To this day, I do not know where Sherlock Holmes learnt to kiss that way. I have never asked and he has never offered. Considering his lack of knowledge pertaining to other parts of his anatomy, this took me by great surprise that first time, and I drew back my head in astonishment. “That’s extraordinary!” I exclaimed, taking a much-needed breath.  
  
“Is it?” he puzzled. “I wasn’t sure.”  
  
“Have you been considering it much?” I asked.  
  
“Some,” he supplied. “Strictly as a scientific inquiry, of course.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“I’ve been wondering about nerve endings in the lips and tongue and muscle layers and taste buds and why do humans kiss at all.”  
  
“Have you?” I managed.  
  
“Mmm. Yes.”  
  
“Any conclusions?” I ventured. I found myself staring at his beautiful mouth, wanting him to speak simply so I could watch his lips and tongue and teeth as they moved.  
  
“None yet,” he admitted. “It’s in the early stages of enquiry.”  
  
And then I laughed. I couldn’t help it. He was so very sincere about it all. “Can I do anything to help move that line of research forward?” I wondered teasingly.  
  
He looked me directly in the eye. “Well, yes, of course, John,” he replied in his somewhat impatient “keep up with me” tone. “I can’t imagine why you haven’t just gotten on with it.”  
  
“Because I want you to ask me. I want to hear you say it,” I found myself nearly begging.  
  
“Oh! I see. Yes. The intimacy of me inviting you to act increases the—”  
  
“Sherlock, my love,” I finally burst out. “Yes. You’re correct and terribly clever and all that, but right now, would you please just…” I stopped in exasperation and (I admit) some desperation.  
  
“John, would you please kiss me again?”  
  
I have never, I do not believe, been such an eager research assistant.  
  
*  
  
Oh. The kissing. I do not feel that I can do it justice with mere ink on paper. What we had done during our previous encounters had been amazing and incredible and stimulating in a way that I had never experienced before—not even with my wife—but having my lips on those of my friend was the first time I had truly experienced—for lack of a better word—bliss.  
  
I became completely unaware of our surroundings—the crackle of the fire; the sound of the wind. The feel of the cushions under us. All of that faded from my awareness. The only thing that existed for me at that moment was my love.  
  
I cradled his thin face in my hands as our tongues explored; tasted.  
  
I laid him back down on the cushions and stroked his hair. I ran the back of my hand across his cheek; he had the tiniest bit of stubble. (Sherlock was a great producer of many things, but facial hair was never one of his successes. He only had to shave every few days at most to keep himself immaculate.)  
  
I kissed his cheek and his chin now. He was smiling in an utterly innocent and beautiful way—it reminded me of a child being given a much-anticipated gift. “You are so beautiful,” I told him.  
  
He frowned a bit in disbelief. “Really, John? Based on your published descriptions of me, I sound more like a… a bird.”  
  
I laughed. “I suppose I do emphasise certain aspects of your appearance,” I admitted.  
  
“Mmm,” he agreed. “But I think you’re very handsome,” he continued a bit dreamily.  
  
“Do you?”  
  
“I’m not the only one. I see how you affect all those women.”  
  
I rolled my eyes at him. “I am a perfect gentleman,” I protested mildly.  
  
“Actually, no, you’re not.”  
  
I laughed out loud. “You’re right. I’m not. You’re not all the time, either.”  
  
“It gets boring,” he admitted, grinning wickedly at me.  
  
“You are so ridiculous,” I said, my voice low. I bent over him again. “Why are we talking when we could be doing something so much nicer?”  
  
He tipped his face up to mine and welcomed my kisses.  
  
I could have kissed him for hours.  
  
*  
  
The tea grew absolutely ice cold.  
  



End file.
